


An Old Friend

by Soule



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:55:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soule/pseuds/Soule
Summary: Grimory and Anarchaia happen upon an old friend of the mage's and the two catch up.Story is canon to the GnA storyline.





	An Old Friend

            Grimory fussed over his hair in the reflection of a finely polished yet weathered vase—flowers spilling out of its top in a fountain of green and white. “How much longer?”

            “Why?” Anarchaia responded dully, her chin rested daintily upon a curled finger as she scrutinized a display case filled with pies, cakes, and cookies. “Have a date?”

            The demon hunter’s face fell into a bemused stare. “Yes. With you.”

            The mage seemed to jerk in minor realization before laughing. “You and I investigating a series of murders in the west bend is hardly a date.”

            “Yeah, but…” He paused, then sighed and leaned a shoulder against the shop wall, arms folded.

            “But…?”

            “This is the last time we’ll see one another before we’re shipped to different parts of the world.”

            The smile quickly vanished from her face. She pulled her mask back over her lips to hide the disappointment that replaced it. She opened her mouth to respond.

            “Anarchaia?”

            The mage perked at the sound of her name and smiled at the woman behind the counter. “Yes, that’s me. And how many?” She took the basket and peeked below the doily as though merely looking at the cookies inside was enough to count them all.

            “Three hundred fifty. As requested.”

            “Thank you. Have a lovely weekend.”

            “You as well. Give my regards to the Council.”

            Grimory followed her back out into the streets. “So the cookies are for…?”

            “Small get-together. Not mine. …of course.”

            “Three hundred fifty is small?”

            “You expect everyone at a party to have _one_ cookie?”

            The elf sighed at the aspect of more stops on their trip through the city of Dalaran. “You mind if I just wait for you at the entrance to Greyfang Enclave?”

            “I suppose. Just make sure that you—”

            “I’m sorry, miss. Did I hear that right?”

            Anarchaia waved a dismissive hand to the man that had followed the two from the bakery. “One moment, Jorick— _JORICK?!_ ” She jumped, then scrambled to not drop her basket.

            The lines in the man’s face deepened as he grinned. “So it _is_ you!” He laughed—husky yet somehow youthful despite his age. “When I’d heard I thought, _there’s only one girl I’ve ever met by that name!_ ” He scooped Anarchaia up by the waist to give her a bone-crackling embrace. “How have you been? It’s been, Light help me, _twenty-three years?_ Gods, you haven’t aged a day—uh, I think. What’s with—”

            “Jorick! Jorick.” Anarchaia again struggled to keep hold of her basket of baked goods, then groaned as her lungs were crushed against his sturdy breastplate. “Air,” she choked.

            “O-oh! Right. Ha ha.” He set her gingerly back on her feet then proceeded to dust off her robes before giving her the chance.

            “So…?” Grimory grumbled, slit eyes flicking between the two before him.

            The man blinked over at the elf, then chuckled. Clawed metal fingers of his gloves clinking together, he extended a hand. “You must be her partner, then? Doubt she’s talked about me much—probably for your own sake. Jorick Willstead.”

            Grimory’s eyes narrowed above pinked cheeks as he hesitated. “Friend. Not partner.” He took the hand and gave a proper shake. “Grimory.”

            Jorick lifted defensive hands. “No harm meant by it. I just happen to know she likes ‘em tall—”

            Anarchaia hissed up at him. “ _Jorick!_ ” She cleared her throat and pushed the two further apart as though through their proximity alone the human clad in armor would reveal more personal details. “Yes, it’s been a long time. A-and I’d love to catch up, but he and I are kind of on a schedule.” She grit her teeth in a grimace.

            Jorick blinked his forest colored eyes down at her, then grinned and swept his hair—black as jet—back to the side when the gentle breeze took it. “Of course! Maybe tonight? At that seedy little tavern down near city limits? I’m only here for a few days.”

            The mage couldn’t help returning the smile. She nodded. “Yes. I’m not quite sure how long this little task will take us, but let’s say eleven?”

            The man nodded, smile broadening. “It’s a date.” He gave her shoulder a gentle pat, then offered his kind eyes to Grimory as he backed away. “A pleasure, Mr. Scowls.”

            The elf’s scowl intensified at the man’s sword-adorned back when he turned away. “All mine,” he spat.

            Anarchaia sighed, a hand over her chest. _That was terrifying. But why?_

            “So, anyway…?”

            “Oh!” She turned and chuckled—quiet and breathy. “Yeah. Uhm. Just make sure you have that signet to wear. Or the guards’ll jump you.”

            After a few more words of instruction, the two sauntered off into the busy streets, parting at the first fork.

 

* * *

 

 

            The tavern--normally packed to the brim at that time of day--was eerily quiet. An elderly couple sat near the end of the bar while a group of night elf men played cards at the table near the mantle.

            The goblin behind the counter sneered at her as she passed. “Ana.”

            “Florix,” she replied with a grin. She found Jorick sitting quietly at a table near the back, wearing a deep verdant tunic with an open leather vest. She paused to steel herself and watched his knee bounce beneath the tabletop. With a sharp inhale, she forced another smile onto her hidden face and rested a hand on his shoulder.

            He casually turned and smiled, eyes and all. “ _Heeey_ ,” he sang and stood to give her a hug, this time with less strength. “How was your assignment?”

            Anarchaia took up the seat across from him. “Oh. You know. Bloody. Heh.”

            He lifted his dark eyebrows, the left of which was divided into three sections by a scar that had nearly completely healed. “Bloody.”

            “Oh! Uh. There's been a string of murders in the west side of the city. I won't bore you with the details.”

            “I'm no stranger to gore,” he replied into his stein as he brought it to his lips.

            She rested her cheekbone on her knuckles. “Oh? Is that what you've been doing since?”

            He swallowed and nodded, and when he leaned forward it was just enough to see the menagerie of scars in the shadows inside his shirt. “I'm a sword for hire.”

            The mage straightened. “A _mercenary? You?_ ”

            He scratched at the coarse hair on his jaw. “I'm not sure whether that's offensive or not.”

            She shrunk back again and picked at her gloves. “S-sorry. I didn't mean--”

            He chuckled. “You haven't changed a bit. That's refreshing.” He shook his head. “Though I can't say I'm as surprised as you were to see you here. I always knew you'd end up with your nose in a book for a living. Who's your boss?”

            She hesitated. “Khadgar.”

            His marred eyebrows lifted again and he whistled. “The big man himself, eh? Again, not surprising.” He drank again. “How are the parents? Still bickering, I imagine. I'll never understand why your mother puts up with Theorin’s bullshit. He's a hardworking man, but Light above, emotion is not his strong suit.”

            Anarchaia stiffened. “D-dead.”

            He blinked. “Come again?”

            “They're dead. They died twenty-one years ago.” She cleared her throat. “Bandits.”

            A scowl crossed his face. “You're joking.”

            She shook her head. “I wish I were. Heh.” Her brow pinched as she felt her sinuses fill and burn. A flinch jerked through her muscles when his hand covered hers.

            “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to speak ill of them. Vices aside, they really were great people.”

            She smiled and grabbed at his fingers with her own. “They were. Thank you.”

            The maid came to their table and Jorick ordered the two of them a round before Anarchaia could refuse.

            “What happened to your finger?”

            Jorick lifted his hand to look at the blunted end of his little finger, then gasped and looked around the floor near himself as though frantically searching for it. He gave her a gentle smile at the sound of her laughter and leaned back in his chair again. “Tortured for some info on a client.” He shrugged. “Yet here I am and here they aren't.” He finished off his ale and set the empty mug aside. No sooner was it replaced with another.

            “That's awful.” Anarchaia reached for the hem of her mask, then paused. _Oh no._

            “Eh. It's my right hand. Practically useless.” He grinned, the crow's feet crowding his eyes. The smile faded ever so slightly as he scrutinized her, however. “So,” he said quietly and watched as her hand flew back to her lap. “Elephant in the room.”

            “Albinism. Y-you know th--”

            “Not indoors. At midnight.”

            “I have a scar.”

            “I have many.”

            “I'm missing an eyebrow.”

            “How do I even know you're really Ana?”     

            She paused. Her tongue ran over her parchment dry lips. “We ran away together when I was ten. And got lost in the woods.” Now it was her leg that was shaking beneath the table. “When we got hungry, we panicked and ate some berries, then got really sick. Thankfully we weren't far from your house and your brother found us an hour or so later.”

            He couldn't help chuckling. “All right, it's you. But…” The lump in his throat jumped when he swallowed. “What happened to you?” he said in a hushed tone that she always knew signified the time for jokes was over.

            She found that her mask was sticking to her cheek, soaked in tears. She sniffled and turned away, rubbing at her nose with a wrist. “I… I can't.”

            He sighed and leaned back in his chair. He ran a hand through his sideswept hair. “That's fine. Maybe one day.” He lifted a boot to tap at her calf, then offered a smile when she turned to look at him. “I'm sorry. Didn't mean to upset you.”

            She shook her head and rubbed at her damp cheek. “You and I both know that isn't true.”

            They stared at one another for a long beat before breaking down into chuckles.

            “Please tell me yours aren’t dead, too. Your parents, I mean. Lyria was the sweetest woman to me.”

            He shook his head and drank. “Nope. Still kicking. Father, too. Jecht went the way of the Light. Haven’t heard from him for a good year or so.”

  
            “And how old is your little sister, now?”

            “Thirty-eight. She’s got four kids of her own.”

            A smile crept back onto Anarchaia’s face and she leaned her face on a hand again. “Ol’ Uncle Jorick.”

            He pointed at her. “No no. You aren’t allowed to use that word.”

            “Uncle?”

            “Old.”

            “I _technically_ said _Ol’_ , but have it your way.”

            “You’re, oh, three years younger than me, _ma’am_.” He grinned. “You’ve hardly any room to talk.”

            She lifted her hands and chuckled. “All right! You win!” Her chuckles trailed off as she leaned back in her chair—it creaked. “So why are you here, then? Seeing someone? A _giiiiirl_?”

            He lifted his eyebrows and shook his head. “If only.”

            “A boy?”

            He laughed. “No. At least not for a rendezvous of the romantic kind.”

            She sobered some, catching his meaning. “You’re an assassin, too?”

            “If you have coin, I have means.” His grin widened. “No one you know.” He drank. “I hope.”

            “As long as it isn’t Grim. Or Master. I think I’ll be fine with whomever.” She paused. “Though I can’t condone it.”

            He furrowed his brow but his grin remained. “You call him _Master_?”

            She pursed her lips. “Why is that so strange?”

            He shrugged and shook his head. “I suppose it isn’t. And no, it’s not him or Sir Scowlsalot. A goblin who’d done someone dirty. I’m reclaiming a payment.” He frowned and ran his finger along the edge of his stein, sighing dramatically. “Though I always feel bad killin’ the little ones. They’re like children.”

            A flash of Gildwynn’s face struck through her mind and Anarchaia giggled. “They aren’t, though. Rather deadly, in fact.”

            “Deadly for my ankles.”

            She laughed, then covered her mouth as though doing so made her feel badly. “Now, now.”

            “So the elf. Just a friend, eh? He seemed pretty excitable.”

            She nodded. “Just a friend. We’ve been on a lot of assignments in the isles together. Liberated Suramar. Aided the front against Sargeras.”

            A look of shock crossed his features. “And here I am, doing nothing for nobody.” He smiled again. “You’re going just as far as I’d thought you would.” He shrugged a shoulder casually, looking away. “Maybe, when we’re all said and done with everything, we could…?”

            “It didn’t work out, Jorick,” she responded carefully as though having expected the topic since she’d arrived. “I can’t see you as anything more than, I don’t know…a brother? A cousin? You’re like family.”

            Disappointment flickered in his eyes but he otherwise hid it well. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He finished off his ale, then swapped their cups. “No hard feelings. I’d just figured since we’ve both grown so much… But I see where you’re coming from.”

            She gave him the softest of smiles though knew he could not see. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be.” He grinned. “I’m old. Probably older looking than you.”

            A quiet laugh escaped her. “You’re, what, forty-four? That’s _not_ old.”

            His smile grew somber. “It is if you’re human, Ana. Soon I’ll have no energy left to even work. It’s a good thing I’ve been sitting on my profits.” He drank, then closed his eyes as he hiccupped into the back of a hand. “Not to mention my health. I’m convinced I oftentimes cough up bullets.”

            She chuckled, but furrowed her brow and ended on an _aww_. She lifted her fingers menacingly. “Want me to cut you open? Take them all out?”

            He laughed. “Maybe if it were anyone but you. You’re such a clutz, I’d wake up with ten less bones than I started with.”

            She huffed playfully and folded her arms. “Perhaps when I was eight.”

            “You broke my father’s whetstone. A _whetstone_. Made of _stone._ ”

            “It was an accident!”

            “Who do you think got whipped for that?”

            “I said I was sorry! _I baked you cookies!_ ”

            “You broke those, too.”

 

            An amount of time had passed that neither had noticed until Jorick pulled a ticking watch from the pocket of his loose vest. He sighed and set aside his fourth empty stein. “Well, I better get going. Promised I’d meet someone in the early morning.”

            Anarchaia nodded and stood, lifting her arms. “Yeah, I have some work to see to as well.” She pressed her cheek into his shoulder as they hugged, then gave a small wave. “Keep in touch from now on, okay?”

            “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He offered a tired smile and watched as she left the now empty tavern.

            His grin vanished and Jorick sighed. He rubbed a palm over his cheek and mouth before throwing a good amount of coin into one of the empty cups on the table. He turned and made to follow, but stopped just outside in the silence of the night. His green eyes met his own on a piece of parchment posted on the stone wall of the next building. Staring at a well-drawn visage of himself, he bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood. In one swift motion, he tore the poster from its tack and ripped it to pieces as he turned down the nearest alley.


End file.
